3
The National Zoo was one of the activities that had seemed too daunting without Harry, with the big hill in the center.
I couldn’t swing Bobby onto my shoulders when he got tired of walking like Harry would have.
But at six, he insisted he could walk the whole way.
And except for a cotton candy break, he did.
The kids oohed and ahhed at the lions and tigers and bears, but all I could see were the families.
Complete and whole with a mom and a dad, some smiling, some annoyed over an unseen grievance, but all present.
We would never be that again. And I wondered if I could ever walk into a room again without being reminded of that loss.
We drove home after our adventure, the kids tired and happy, each clutching a new stuffed animal from the gift shop.
I couldn’t dangle ice cream, dinner in front of the television, and new toys forever, but I made it clear this weekend was a special treat because it was our first weekend on our own.
And as I glanced at them in the rearview mirror, I felt a sense of satisfaction.
I had taken them to the zoo by myself without tears (theirs or mine) or losing anyone.
And if Susie or Bobby noticed all the happy families with fathers, they didn’t let on with so much as a sigh or wistful glance.
They just enjoyed the new memories we were making.
We were going to be all right.
I lowered my sunglasses to see better as we neared the house. Something was on the front step. Something ... large.
“Did we get a package?” Bobby asked.
“Not on a Sunday,” I said, still trying to make out what it was.
My eyes widened as the image came into focus.
Harry’s mother, Ruth, was sitting on a suitcase—one of five—on our front step.
Her dark hair was streaked with more gray than the last time I had seen her, and she wore a look of impatience as she squinted at the car, determining if it was us.
Harry said she had needed glasses since his childhood but refused them because they made her “look old.” I had seen pictures, and she was stunningly beautiful in her youth, with large brown eyes that Harry had inherited, a brilliant smile, and porcelain skin.
She was still a handsome woman now, though the grief of losing first her husband, then her son had etched lines on her face.
“Wha—?”
Susie cut me off, rolling her window down frantically. “Grandma Ruth!” she called excitedly. “It’s Grandma Ruth!”
I didn’t mind my mother-in-law—much. Though the phone calls where I needed to comfort her for the whole first year were a bit ... intense for a grieving widow. But the volume of suitcases, as well as the fact that she had neglected to call and tell me she would be stopping by, made me nervous.
The kids hopped out practically before the car was in park, throwing themselves at the grandmother who, despite living only half an hour away in the District of Columbia, they saw far less often than my mother before she had moved in.
She returned their hugs, peppering them with kisses that left a seemingly unending trail of lipstick marks across their faces, before pulling hard candies from her purse to slip into their expectant hands.
I took a deep breath to steel myself before stepping out of the car.
“Mother Ruth,” I said as warmly as I could, using the name she had asked me to call her.
Honestly, I tried to avoid saying her name whenever possible.
Mother Ruth was far too formal, and, despite her intentions, I felt it kept me at arm’s length.
“We didn’t know you were coming,” I said. “We would have been home if we had.”
“I suppose I’ll need a key that actually works,” she said without malice in her voice, which bore the slightest hint of an accent.
She had come over at six, the youngest of five daughters, from a border town in what was either Ukraine, Russia, or the Soviet Union, depending on what year you were discussing.
I had forgotten she had the old key. My mother insisted, early in her residency, that we needed stronger locks with no man in the house, so she had hired a locksmith.
“Of course,” I said smoothly, while silently thanking my mother.
I didn’t need Ruth letting herself into my house day or night at will.
Though this was the first time she had attempted to use the key since Harry’s death.
Moving around her, I unlocked the door, and the children poured inside, Susie taking her grandmother’s hand and asking her to help find a place for her new stuffed elephant.
“Bring my bags in, won’t you?” Ruth called over her shoulder. “I can unpack down here if they’re too heavy for you to bring upstairs to my room.”
“Your room?” I asked, looking from the suitcases to her.
She extracted her hand from Susie’s and turned back to look at me. “Yes,” she said. “Your mother told me she was moving home, so I’ll take the room she used.”
I could feel my eyes widen, and I tried to lower the lids to a normal height. “For a few days?” I asked thinly, knowing this was too many bags for that.
“For as long as I’m needed.” She smiled innocently at me.
“That—that’s just it,” I sputtered. “I told my mother she could go home because we’re—we’re fine. We have everything under control.”
Ruth leaned down to Susie and told her to go on upstairs, and she’d be up in just a minute, then walked back to me, placing a hand on my cheek. “No,” she said. “You don’t. But don’t worry. I’m here now. And mother knows best.”
She reached around me in the doorway and grabbed a carpetbag that had been on top of one of the suitcases, heaving it over her shoulder and taking it up the stairs with her, calling Susie’s name as she went.
At a loss, I brought her bags into the front hall, then glanced up the stairs before going to the kitchen, where I immediately placed a long-distance call to my mother, who answered on the third ring.
“Mom,” I said by way of a whispered greeting. “Did you tell Ruth to move in?”
“Did I what?” she asked over a slightly staticky line.
“Ruth,” I whispered slightly louder. “She just showed up. With suitcases. Five of them. And announced she’s moving in indefinitely.”
“I told her I was going home and to check in on you from time to time,” my mother said. “I’m sure that’s all she’s doing.”
“Five suitcases,” I hissed. “What did you do?”
“Do you want me to come back down there? I’m sure she wouldn’t stay if I was back.”
I was less sure of that than she was. And the absolute last thing I wanted was to live in a house with the both of them. “No,” I said. “I’ll ... handle it. Somehow.” I told her I’d call her the following day and hung up.
Then I marched myself upstairs to face the issue head on.
The issue was in the room that was practically still warm from my mother living in it, sitting on the edge of the bed, then rising and sitting again. “How did your mother sleep on this mattress for two years?” she asked me. “Her back is only a few years younger than mine.”
I had a tart reply on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it.
She had lost her son. If “helping” us helped her through her own grief, who was I to take that from her?
No. The best thing I could do was act grateful and then let her know, gently, as I had with my mother, that it was time for us to be on our own.
I wasn’t going to take two years to do it this time though.
A couple of weeks of Ruth Feldman in my house wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Though more than that might be. So that was the trick, then—make sure she saw we could do this ourselves and promise to visit with her more frequently.
I would be able to do that in two weeks.
“The guest room doesn’t get used that much,” I said with a shrug.
Did I put that little emphasis on guest as a pointed dig?
Yes. I’m no saint. Even if they did canonize Jews, I doubted I’d be in the running—though not ceremoniously throwing her out might get me a nomination.
“I’ll bring up what I can carry,” I told her.
“And then I’ll start dinner. Are you hungry, Mother Ruth? ”
“I could eat.” She cocked her head at me. “I suppose just ‘Ruth’ will do. ‘Mother Ruth’ is a mouthful when we’re living together. Unless you’d rather call me ‘Mother’?”
I studied her for a moment. Was that in response to calling it the guest room? She turned her back on me and began opening dresser drawers and examining the space, humming softly as she did so.
After lugging her bags upstairs, I returned to the kitchen. The calendar caught my eye with its circled number one. Two weeks, I thought through gritted teeth. Then we start the “on our own” count again.
I leaned my forehead on the smooth, cool surface of the refrigerator next to the calendar, wishing for the millionth time for some kind of sign from Harry.
Could he see us? Did he even know that I was humoring her for his sake?
But that was the worst part about death—if we knew the person wasn’t really completely gone, it wouldn’t be so hard.
And after so long without a peep from Harry, my faith was shaky at best.
But I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and blinked away the tears that threatened my eyes. If I could make it through the first two years of widowhood, and I had, I could do anything. These next two weeks would be a breeze. An unpleasantly hot one, but a breeze all the same.